


Without You

by starstruck1986



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-01
Updated: 2014-01-01
Packaged: 2018-01-07 02:16:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,844
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1114329
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starstruck1986/pseuds/starstruck1986
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It had all seemed so absolute. So completely done. And then the doorbell rang.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Without You

**Title:** Without You  
 **Pairing(s)/Character(s):** Harry / Ron, mentioned historical Ron / Hermione.  
 **Rating:** R  
 **Warnings** : Language, angst, dependency on alcohol.  
 **Word Count** 5,886  
 **Summary:** It had all seemed so absolute. So completely done. And then the doorbell rang.  
 **Prompt:** _A few years ago, at Christmas, Harry told Ron how he felt. Ron gently, but firmly turned him down, and Harry took the rejection hard, and slowly but surely, deleted himself from Ron's life. Now, a year later, Harry -alone at Grimmauld place, saddened again by Christmas eve, and the memory of Christmas past- has a surprise visitor, with some surprising revelations._  
  


** Without You **

  
  
  
Harry knocked back the last of his Firewhiskey as the final chime sounded for nine. He hated the clock but like so many other things in Grimmauld Place, it seemed to be glued to the wall. It made a flat, morbid bong sound, one that he imagined would have tolled for a death in the past. He knew he shouldn't be surprised, given that everything in his godfather's old home was either macabre or ancient, and often both.  
  
He revelled a moment in the silence which followed, punctuated by only the odd pop and crackle from the fire. He raised his glass to his lips and then remembered it was empty. Harry refilled it from the bottle, which sat waiting on the coffee table like a dutiful pet.  
  
He did not need to look at himself, Harry knew, to realise the pitiful picture he painted. He was wearing his holiest pyjamas, which were more hole than fabric, and he hadn't washed for days. He stank and knew it, but he felt that he had run out of fucks to give in the grand scheme of things. It had been days since he'd spoken to anybody and had ignored the ringing of the doorbell and the requests to enter through his Floo connection.  
  
Harry simply wanted none of it. It was Christmas Eve and he planned to spend it in misery, alone.  
  
 _Like the whole of this fucking shitty year, then._  
  
One hand rose to his chest and rubbed over his heart. It was almost an involuntary movement, given that he seemed to do it a hundred times a day and he didn't really know why – or what it solved. Yet he sat there smoothing his hand over his chest, imagining the emptiness within. Of course he knew that his chest wasn't really empty and there was most definitely a pulse racing within him, but he felt hollow, and like someone had kicked their way through his lungs.  
  
With another swig of Firewhiskey, Harry snorted at himself and his dramatics. He had never been uncomplicated, he knew that. It was rather hard to imagine being uncomplicated when he had been marked for death before he was even born. The last few years had been something else entirely, though, first with the intensity of his feelings, and then...  
  
Taking another gulp and creating a fiercer burn in the back of his throat, Harry narrowed his eyes and tried not to think about it. Except, all he did was think about it, day in, day out, and he found that he couldn't help but wish it had all been different.  
  


* * *

  
  
**One Year Earlier**  
  
“Shit, I'm drunk.”  
“Y'think?” Harry laughed, looking at Ron as the redhead clung to the wall to stay upright.  
  
Something warm released in his chest as he watched Ron break into giggles. They were broken with little snorts borne of his friend's mirth, and he had never heard a better sound than a happy Ron.  
  
He couldn't help but look Ron over as he stood there, finding his own inebriation hilarious. His formal Auror robes were wonky and his collar and cuffs were both unbuttoned. His cheeks were flushed with heat and alcohol. Harry's fingers gave a twitch, wanting to reach out and touch. He consoled himself by moving closer, hoping that if he was lucky, he might smell Ron on the air.  
  
It was desperate to rely on such petty fixes, but it was all that he had and all that he dared to take. He had thought of talking to Ron many times, just coming clean and laying his affections out like a winning hand of cards.  
  
 _Fucking coward. You're meant to be better than this._  
  
“Why're you looking at me funny?” Ron asked, his smile curious.  
“I'm not.” Harry had got so used to lying in response to that particular question that the words simply rolled off his tongue without him having to think.  
“Yes you are. And you look at me a lot.”  
“No I don't.”  
“Yes you do!” Ron insisted. “Why?”  
  
Harry didn't feel he could protest as Ron seized both of his hands and pulled them up so that they sat palm-to-cheek.  
  
“Are you tragically in love with me?” He joked, raising his eyebrows.  
  
Too drunk to really think about it, and definitely too drunk to think about his prior hesitations and careful concealment of his feelings, Harry waited maybe half a second before leaning forward and pressing his lips to Ron's. Every single nerve cell in his body seemed to be screaming in shock. Ron's hands fell away from his own and Harry gripped tighter, holding the wizard in place as they kissed.  
  
 _What the fuck are you doing?_  
  
Harry batted the thought away and pressed Ron into the wall, using his jaw to up the ante on the pressure between them.  
  
 _No, really, what are you doing?_  
  
 _I'm being brave for the first time since the war ended._  
  
Any sense of bravery, however, was shattered when Ron's fingers found Harry's shoulders and gently pushed him away. Harry stood, his lips still in a pout, wondering what had happened. Ron's face transformed in front of him, blushing a brighter shade of red and his face twisting with dismay.  
  
“What was that?” Ron asked quietly.  
“I'm sorry,” Harry immediately blurted, loathing the shock and fear in Ron's expression. “I'm sorry, I didn't mean to-”  
“What? Be honest?”  
“I didn't mean to scare you, Ron, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have done it. I'm pissed.”  
“You didn't scare me. I just... don't do it again.”  
  
Harry felt something break inside.  
  
“Why not?”  
“Because I don't like you in that way. I didn't know you liked me like that. I love you, Harry, but not in _that_ way.”  
“What way?”  
“The way that made you kiss me like that.”  
“Like what?” Harry asked, feeling mortification stirring in his blood.  
“Like you _love_ me love me,” Ron whispered.  
  
They stared at each other. Harry felt nausea creeping in and he was sweating. He was usually so careful and it had all gone so horribly wrong thanks to the Auror Department Christmas party. He wanted to scream and rage, to throw things about. His carefully protected cover had been blown and he had worked so hard to ensure Ron's continued ignorance of his true feelings. And it was all over.  
  
“I've got to go,” he said mechanically.  
“No, Harry-”  
  


* * *

  
  
How many times had he relived that moment? Harry laughed again, knowing that the answer was embarrassing. There were so many things he would have done differently if given his time over again.  
  
He noticed that his fingers were shaking the glass they held, so he downed the contents of it to try and strengthen them. He reached forward and poured another triple measure of the spirit, looking forward to the oblivion that it would bring him after enough refills.  
  
Harry knew that there would be people who would be furious with him if they could see what he was doing to himself with the drink, not least Ron. It only reinforced his opinion that he was right to withdraw from them all. It had taken him a grand total of four days after the incident with Ron to quietly resign from his position as an Auror and barricade himself within Grimmauld. He had changed the wards so that nobody, magical or Muggle, could get within ten feet of the front door without becoming completely baffled. He'd had to enlist the help of a few choice spellbooks to get it to work, but work it did, and he was left alone. The Floo was another way in and he had blocked that too for many days. As he sat there it operated on a permission only basis, but not many people bothered to try for access any more.  
  
That satisfied him. Ron had said no, turned him down, and there was the painful truth that Harry could not bear to be around Ron with what had happened between them. He couldn't look what he desired in the face every day and know that he could never have it. Harry was had decided that he was finished being the man who never got the happy ending he wanted. It only seemed logical that to make himself happy, he should remove himself from Ron, and everything to do with Ron.  
  
Only, that logic didn't seem to have struck Molly, who continually sent him letters, presents and food parcels. Removing himself from Ron had meant removing himself from the whole of the Weasley family, which had only served to make the whole débâcle even more devastating. They were his family too – or they had been.  
  
He had made a depressing little ritual of burning all of her letters at the end of the week. She invited him to Sunday lunch without fail. Glancing at the grate, he could still see the remnants of the offer of Christmas dinner smouldering away.  
  
Harry got to his feet and gulped back more Firewhiskey until the bottom of the glass came into view. He let out a belch after his final swallow and slammed the empty tumbler down onto Sirius' old coffee table. The old grandfather clock stood in the corner, ticking malevolently and Harry stared at it, suddenly imagining smashing it to pieces.  
  
It ticked away seconds of his life which he could not claim back. He had lost a year to his misery. He knew it was a waste, that his life was precious and that so many people had died to give him it, to ensure air in his lungs and blood in his veins. Harry had lost all sense of priority. Ron had been an obsession before, a progressive obsession with a humiliating end. But Harry had spent so long fantasising about 'what if' that he worried he might have become unhinged in the process.  
  
Only when the doorbell rang out, shrill and cold, did he realise that he was standing with both hands outstretched towards the clock.  
  
“You are fucking insane,” he muttered to himself matter-of-factly, shaking his head.  
  
The doorbell rang again. He had no idea who it was. He had lifted the restrictions on the wards about a month ago when he was sure that most people had given up on him – and he'd set a special alarm bell for Molly. There was another ring and irritation rose within him. It was Christmas Eve and he wondered, as he staggered into the hallway, whether there was a malfunction in the protection and his house was suddenly on view to all of London's worst carol singers. The thought filled him with dread and he hurried, tripping over his own toes and inebriation to get to the door. He touched his hand to the door latch and shivered at the tingle which ran through him as it recognised his magical trace. Then he opened the door.  
  
His lungs had been full to give whoever was on the other side of the wood an earbashing, but when he saw who was standing on the doorstep in the rain, all the wind rushed out of his sails. He didn't know where to look first – at the face, at the long body dressed in an old hand-me-down long dragonhide coat or at the red hair.  
  
 _Wish it **had** been carol singers._  
  
Harry had always loved Ron in that coat.  
  
“Don't slam the door in my face,” Ron pleaded immediately.  
“I should.”  
“No, you shouldn't.”  
“Er, I think that I'm allowed to say who I can let in my house. And you are someone I definitely don't want in my house.”  
  
Grabbing the edge of the door, Harry made to shut it, but before the lock halves could meet, the wood crashed into an outstretched wrist which had been flung between them. Harry heard Ron's cry of pain and the hand vanished. He pushed the door shut  
  
Hidden from view, Harry began the falling apart process which he was so familiar with. Nausea twisted his gut and bile rose in his throat. Ron was on his doorstep. The man whom he'd been desperate to see for months, and he'd shut the door on him. Questions ran riot in his brain, wondering why Ron had bothered to show up a year on from the party which had ruined everything.  
  
Not hearing departing footsteps, Harry pressed an eye to the peep hole he'd installed shortly after Christmas the year before. His pulse seemed to accelerate like a Firebolt when he saw that Ron was still outside, wetter than ever, his face in his hands and his chest heaving. Compassion filled Harry before he could stop it or his fingers from opening the door again. He pulled it fully open, letting the cold December air wrap around his bare ankles. Tasting sick again, he turned away and headed down the hallway, leaving it up to Ron whether to follow.  
  
Harry went back to the parlour he'd been haunting for months and summoned another glass from the drinks cabinet. He poured Ron some Firewhiskey without asking if he wanted it. When Ron eventually caught up, Harry was halfway through yet another glass of his own; he had a feeling he might need it.  
  
Ron seemed larger than life. Taller than Harry remembered, more defined. More adult.  
  
 _Even better looking. Bollocks._  
  
He turned his attention to the glittering raindrops falling onto his rug to avoid blushing. “For God's sake, take your coat off.”  
  
Ron flinched at the rebuke as though Harry had struck him. He did, however, take his coat off and hang it on a random old hook on the back of the door. Sirius had once told Harry that his mother used to hang house elves from that hook if they misbehaved until they were nearly dead. He shivered again. Ron sat down and picked up his drink.  
  
“Why are you here?” Harry asked, unable to help folding his arms over his chest; he needed to protect the gaping hole that Ron had left there.  
“I want to talk to you. I've been trying to get here for days.”  
“Oh!” Harry said, scraping false cheeriness from the bottom of his emotional store. “Well, I'm honoured that you finally found time for me in your busy schedule.”  
  
Ron shot him a doleful look and shook his head. “No, Harry. It's not like that. I've been trying for three days but each time I did I couldn't get past the bin on the corner. I just stood there staring at the house.”  
“Oh.”  
“I'm pretty sure your neighbours think I'm a murderer.”  
  
Harry didn't bother to raise a smile for the joke. Ron sipped at his drink, delicately. He made a face at the burn it caused as it went down.  
  
“Just drink it for fuck's sake,” Harry muttered. “Like a man.”  
  
Hurt sliced through Ron's expression and Harry hated the smug, swooping satisfaction which shot though his belly.  
  
“What happened to you?” Ron whispered. “You're so...”  
  
He didn't need to finish the sentence; they both knew what he meant.  
  
“I got hurt.” Harry shrugged. “I didn't deal with it very well. I never did deal with getting hurt by you very well at all, if you remember rightly.” He thought of their fourth year at Hogwarts, the Horcrux Hunt and beyond, how every argument felt like a betrayal.  
  
“Neither did I,” Ron said pointedly.  
“How the fuck did you get hurt out of what happened?” Harry burst out. He winced, knowing it was the alcohol driving him.  
“You left, Harry. I've missed you like all hell.”  
  
There was such utmost sincerity in Ron's voice that Harry felt a lump thicken in his throat.  
  
“But now what?” He forced himself on, forcing the bitterness out of his mouth so that it might poison somebody else for a change. “You've come to get your fill for another year?”  
“No, mate. I came to tell you that what happened last year is the biggest regret of my life.”  
“Was kissing me really that bad for you?”  
“For fuck's sake!” Ron slammed his glass down on the coffee table and jumped to his feet. “Will you stop putting words in my mouth, Harry?”  
  
He strode to the fireplace, where he began to pace in front of it.  
  
Harry retreated to the sofa and watched him, feeling anger building within his chest. He was slightly worried what outlet it might find, but Ron was so captivating to watch, stomping back and forth in front of the flames, that he allowed himself to be distracted.  
  
“If you wear a hole in the carpet, you're paying for it,” he said finally, trying to throw Ron a contemptuous glance and feeling that he failed.  
  
“Will you just drop the shit, Harry?” Ron spat.  
“I'm not giving you _shit_ ,” Harry said emphatically. “This is me now. This is what _you_ made me.”  
“I made you a pisshead, stinking recluse?” Ron laughed. “Harry, don't flatter yourself. You're like this off your own back, you dickhead.”  
  
Fury taking over, Harry jumped to his feet and snatched his wand out of the waistband of his pyjamas.  
  
“Are you going to hex me? After you've already nearly broken my wrist tonight?”  
“I might.”  
“The welcome's gone really downhill around here, y'know that?”  
“Fuck off.”  
“Well, come on then. Hex me.”  
“What?”  
“You want me to hurt like you've been hurting, right?”  
  
Harry saw his hand shake and his wand lowered involuntarily.  
  
“Harry. I'm sorry. For everything.”  
“Oh, well, that makes everything better again! It really brings back the wasted year of my life!”  
  
“You wasted it by yourself!” Ron roared, his eyes furious. “I didn't push you off out of spite, Harry. You scared the shit out of me. I was in a straight relationship. You were my best friend and you kissed me and I LIKED IT. Loved it. Fuck, I think I'd even wanted it. But then it happened and I was drunk and the room was spinning and I thought I was going to puke in your face.”  
  
“But you said no! You pushed me away.”  
“I was scared.”  
“Why?! Was it so _fucking_ awful to imagine that I might love you? That I might want to be with you?”  
  
Ron sucked in a breath. “No, it wasn't that.”  
“Then what?”  
  
“It was just... I don't... change makes a wimp out of me and it always has. You know that.”  
  
“And so... what? You think you can just come back and act all sorry and I'll just fall at your feet and we'll live happily ever after?”  
  
Ron hung his head. “No. But it's Christmas, Harry, and I couldn't stand the thought of it without you. I needed to see you.”  
  
Far too quickly, Ron was in front of him. Harry was kissing him before he knew what was happening. It tasted like he remembered, though with far less alcohol, and Ron was dominant, controlling the kiss and pushing him back towards the sofa. He was on his back and Ron was panting into his mouth, pressing down into his body. He could feel Ron's erection through two sets of clothing.  
  
 _Fuck._  
  
“Get off,” he rasped, his hands finding Ron's shoulders like Ron's had found his a year before. He shoved with none of the delicacy that Ron had shown him. “Get out of my house. I don't want you.”  
  
Harry practically spat the last sentence, hoping that it would cut deep that he didn't want Ron at all, not anywhere, and especially not in his house on Christmas Eve.  
  
 _But you do..._ a snide voice in his head remarked.  
  
“You wanted me last year,” Ron whispered.  
“That was then. This is now. Get out.”  
  
It wasn't hard to see the change in Ron after those words had landed. Something in his eyes hinted to the processes going on within. If Ron had been one to cry, Harry knew he would have been tearing up. Instead everything had gone inward and he knew he wouldn't be far off if he estimated that Ron was physically burning on the inside. Outwardly his fingers began to shake and he paled significantly.  
  
“I... right.” It was a croak, not a proper voice. Ron pulled back and got up. He unhooked his coat from the back of the door but didn't put it on.  
  
Without another word he left the room, his boots clacking loudly as he walked for the front door. Harry stood looking at the spot where he had departed, mouth open, wishing that he hadn't spoken. That Ron was still in front of him. He heard the front door open and could hear the pissing rain from where he stood. The thought of Ron back out in it, getting steadily more drenched, hurt something in his chest. The state in which he assessed Ron to be in on the inside upset him, plus the thought of the redhead wandering around London in the pouring rain set something in motion in his brain. Worry. A confusing emotion. He'd not worried about anything for months. He was _concerned_ for Ron.  
  
With a blink, he launched forward, banging his leg into the sofa. He tore into the hallway, glad to find the front door still wide open and a figure silhouetted against the dark London night.  
  
He grabbed hard at the first body part he saw, which seemed to be part of an arm, and yanked Ron back inside. He kicked the front door shut and blocked it with his body. Ron's eyes were now rimmed red and he seemed to be a whiter shade of pale than usual. He was simply _more_ than Harry remembered.  
  
Harry reached up and touched his fingers to the raindrops sliding down Ron's brow.  
  
“Don't go. I don't mean it. I just...”  
“You've been alone for a long time.”  
“I know.”  
  
He found himself desperately wishing that he was more eloquent with words, that he could properly explain why he had done what he had done, and what he'd hoped to achieve.  
  
“I couldn't stay in that... place... without you.”  
“What place?” Ron asked.  
“Our world,” Harry ground out. “Your family being mine. Your friends being mine. I couldn't be in that world any more without you, and I couldn't be there seeing what I couldn't have, either.”  
“Harry...” Ron's whisper was reproachful.  
“The thought made me want to die. Actually die.”  
  
He hated himself for the amateur dramatics.  
  
“Please tell me you didn't try to off yourself?” Ron asked tersely. Harry said nothing as long, pale fingers pulled up his hands and started to inspect his wrists. He permitted it to happen, enjoying the sensation of skin-on-skin.  
  
“I'm too much of a wimp,” he admitted finally, when Ron seemed satisfied that there were no tell-tale scars of an attempt. “But I did think about it.”  
  
Ron's grip on his hands became painful on hearing his admission and Harry looked away, embarrassed.  
  
“I'm still here,” he whispered finally, when he could bear the silence no longer.  
“In all your bitter, skanky glory.”  
  
Harry found the laugh which came so naturally odd. It was well-meant - _lightly_ meant. It was not the bitter scoff at which he had become so talented.  
  
“It hurt,” he explained finally.  
“I know it did. Being without you hurt too, Harry.”  
  
When Ron moved to kiss him that time, it was slower, more hesitant. Harry again allowed it to happen but found that it sent tingles running through his body. He suddenly felt ashamed of his rancid breath and ripe body. Ron seemed to be ignoring it, though, as he brought his arms up behind Harry's back and pulled him close. Harry crept his fingers beneath the hand-me-down coat. Ron seemed thinner than ever and, with a flash of guilt, Harry wondered how much that had to do with his desertion.  
  
He closed his eyes and pressed hard against Ron, forcing his weight upon the redhead and practically clinging to him. He felt his glasses shift uncomfortably and rub against the bridge of his nose but he didn't relent. Ron was making soft sounds in the back of his throat which were starting a fire in the pit of Harry's belly. He wanted him.  
  
 _So much._  
  
“Why? Why are you here? Please, don't hurt me again...” he whispered, barely pulling back from Ron's mouth to speak.  
“I came here to tell you that I love you, Harry. I've been in love with you for years. But you kissed me and I freaked out and it made me lose the one thing I really wanted. God, I'm so sorry, Harry. Please forgive me. I'm here now, asking you to...”  
“Asking me what?”  
“Asking you to love me again.”  
“The reason I'm a bitter bastard is because I never stopped loving you. Never.”  
  
The strength seemed to leech from Ron's legs on his confession. Harry was left shouldering his weight and staggered slightly, not wanting to give up and certainly not wanting to lose face.  
  
“I didn't think you'd have me,” Ron said weakly.  
“I still think what you did to me was horrible.” Harry hoped Ron would forgive him his stubbornness.  
“Did you want me to have sex with you on our boss' desk? Did you want me to cheat on Hermione?”  
“No, I just wanted you to be with me.”  
  
Shame made him shiver once again in the cold hallway. Harry had, in his more reasonable moments, considered what he had wordlessly asked Ron to give up in that one action of kissing him. Yet, he had always ended up coming full circle and hating him all over again. As he stood there, he realised he should have been hating himself. Or at least disapproving of his own actions.  
  
“Why is it that no matter how old I get, Harry, there's something about you that makes me act like I'm five?”  
“I think it's mutual. Perhaps that's our natural state.” Harry laughed. “But I don't think a five year old would be allowed to be as drunk as I've been for the past year.”  
“Well, no. But you're not the only one to have hit the bottle in desperation, Harry.”  
“Why is it that you can always make me feel better with a mutter and a bloody grin?”  
  
Harry shook his head and braced his hands on Ron's shoulders.  
  
“I'm going to knock back some Sobering Solution, have a shower, and a shave, and change, and then...” He shrugged, not knowing how fast or slow to move, what even really to say. “Stay with me?”  
“Are you sure that's what you want?” Ron straightened up and squared his shoulders, seemingly preparing himself for the worst.  
  
“Stay,” Harry repeated.  
  
***  
  
He'd taken the sobering solution, but Harry still felt drunk. He was still catching his breath, lying on his back, view obscured by Ron's throat as the redhead hovered over him, cradling him.  
  
The sex had been nothing like he had ever imagined. He'd had cause to imagine a lot of sex with Ron and even he hadn't been sure that reality could have surpassed the time he'd treated himself to one of the twins' fantasy serums. It had been, though. He'd come so hard that he'd seen sparks in his vision, something he'd thought only happened in bad romance novels and girls' imaginations. Ron himself had been marvellous – his hands everywhere, body sweaty and so beautifully _loud_. Harry made a mental note to ask him quite where he had learnt all of his new swear words.  
  
He mouthed a kiss into the flesh at his lips and nipped there. Ron's breath hitched and he pulled back, grinning. His hair was standing up in all directions. He had never looked better.  
  
“Maybe you should have just done that a year ago. Don't think I could have said no to sex like that. I didn't know sex like that existed.”  
  
Harry laughed, but it only served to multiply the questions that were buzzing around his mind. They'd fallen into bed and only now was he wondering what Ron's life was like. Was he still with Hermione? Was he involved with anyone else?  
  
“It's fine, Harry. Just ask me.”  
“Since when are you a mind reader?”  
“It's only the same questions I'm wondering about you.”  
  
He frowned and then laughed again. “There's nothing to know. I've got nothing. I've been in my house for a year.”  
“You walked out of work.”  
“How is it?”  
“Horrible without you. And everyone seems to know why you left. I'm not popular. I'm going to leave.”  
“Fuck. You can't do that, Ron.”  
“You did it.”  
“Yeah but...”  
“No buts. I've had enough. I'd love to be able to walk into a room and not get glared at. I took down their golden boy and I don't think they'll ever forgive me.”  
“Not even if I come back?”  
“Not even. You'll do better if I'm not there, Harry, believe me.”  
  
Eager to move on so that Ron couldn't gain more fuel for his quitting fire, Harry said, “So... what about you and Hermione?”  
“She knew something must have happened when you pulled away from us. She asked me what happened and... I told her.”  
  
Harry went cold. “Shit. Does she hate me, Ron?”  
“No. And oddly enough she doesn't hate me either.”  
“How come?”  
“I told her that what you'd done had made me think a lot. And she said that it was my worst nightmare, having to choose between you and her. She seemed to know more than I did, at any rate. I think she'd guessed what you felt, and she cut me a surprising amount of slack whilst I tried to figure out what you meant to me.”  
“So where is she now?”  
“Living in her very swanky flat in Kensington, going out with someone who looks a lot like Remus, actually. He's a Muggle.”  
“Really?”  
“Really. I've met him. He's a good bloke and he treasures her... just like I did.”  
  
Harry looked down, unable to meet Ron's eyes.  
  
“But I treasured you every bit as much, Harry. More. And we both knew that. It was sad, finishing with her. We both cried a bit. But she's still my best friend and she's desperate to see you, even though she was the one who told me to wait. To leave you to either come back to us or until I really couldn't hack it any more.”  
“And tonight you cracked?”  
“It's been coming on over the past few weeks, as I said. It's Christmas and... I just needed to see you. Even if you were going to boot me out. And try to break my wrist.”  
  
Harry looked at said wrist and saw the deep, ugly bruises which had blossomed there in the hours that had passed.  
  
“Shit. I'm sorry.”  
“It's fine,” Ron deflected automatically. “Don't worry about it. Had worse.”  
  
He lowered his head for a kiss which Harry gave.  
  
“So... you're a free agent then.”  
“Yup.”  
“That's... good to know.”  
“Yup.”  
  
Another kiss. Harry closed his eyes and felt his cock stirring again.  
  
“I've missed you so much,” Ron whispered too him. “So much, Harry. I'm not pissing about here. This is for good. So you'd better bloody be sure, all right?”  
“I can't promise that I'm always going to be a good boyfriend.” Harry made a face. “I've never really been a proper boyfriend to anyone.”  
“You'll have to ask Hermione if I was a good boyfriend.” Ron made his own face. “Don't think I was much of one personally.”  
“You've always been ridiculously hard on yourself. I won't let you get away with it, y'know?”  
  
Ron's face broke into a huge grin as he looked down at Harry.  
  
Somewhere in the depths of the house, carrying in the air with the low tone of the chime, the clock Harry hated began the first of twelve strikes. He kept eye contact with Ron as they passed, trying to take him in, to make sure that he was real, and if not – if he was some beautiful, cruel hallucination, to memorise every millimetre of his face. Silence fell again.  
  
“Christmas Day,” he said finally, shifting back into the mattress.  
  
Ron finally lowered himself and rested on his side, propping his head up with a hand. He reached out and traced one finger down the middle of Harry's chest to settle in his belly button.  
  
“Merry Christmas, Harry.” He leant forward and gave him a kiss. “I'm a shit boyfriend already. No present. What a twat, eh?”  
“I haven't got you one either.”  
  
Harry wriggled onto his side so that they faced. He reached up and pushed Ron's hair behind his ear and loved the feel of it. It suddenly struck him that Ron was offering him the chance to feel him every single day.  
  
“Where are you staying at the minute?” he murmured, focussing on the freckles on Ron's long nose.  
“I'm renting a flat above a shop in the Alley. It's a dive.”  
“Give it up. Come here. As soon as you can.”  
“Are you sure you want that?”  
“Don't you?”  
“I do, I just thought... that you might want to take it slowly. That you wouldn't trust me.”  
“It will be slow. But slow for us. We were best friends for over ten years before it went to shit. And we both played a part in that. I think we're strong enough to go from here... unless you don't want to?”  
“I'll pack my flat up today.”  
“No you won't.” Harry laughed in his face.  
  
“Eh?” Fear and pain splattered across Ron's features.  
“If you think you're going anywhere today you're as thick as two short planks.”  
  
Harry rolled him onto his back and pressed him into the bed. He grabbed Ron's hands and laced their fingers together before bringing them up beside his head and pinning them there. He kissed Ron, slowly and sweetly and full of every longing thought he'd over the past year.  
  
“Why does it always take us longer than it should to get our acts together?” Ron asked aloud, his lips reddened with use. “We're idiots, Harry.”  
“This time, we'll get it right. We will.”  
  
Ron grinned that grin again and tipped his head back, clearly thrilled. “Mum's going to burst.”  
“Not today though. Today, just us. Promise?”  
“Promise.”  
  
 _-fin-_


End file.
